


You Got My Mind To Follow

by plume_bob



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Nogitsune Stiles, Non-Consensual Kissing, Possession, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, episode AU, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plume_bob/pseuds/plume_bob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nogitsune heads to the loft to seek out its next victim, using Stiles' desires to deliver its intentions with a more personal touch. Afterwards, Stiles and Derek deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Got My Mind To Follow

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this after watching the promo for the episode De-Void (and before I watched the actual episode, so inaccuracies abound). Inspired by a discussion about the fireflies being all up in Derek and how they got there. A (now AU) take on how Derek got possessed, Sterek style. Betad by [Lisa](http://flowepicture2.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Here be angst, darkness, non-con kissing, and then fluff. Derek POV.

 

 

 

_you got my heart beating,_  
 _beating, beating, beating_  
                       Banks - Fall Over

 

He hits the wall and crumples, back cracking.

Not breaking, thank fuck, but painfully, yes, abso-fucking-lutely. He coughs against the dust-filmed floorboards and drags in gasps of air and Stiles—no, not quite Stiles, the thing inside him, the nogitsune that’s at least 80-20 taken control of him now—slips close with a grace he doesn’t have as a human. He kneels astride Derek’s body, fists a hand in the front of his t-shirt and drags him half upright, presses him back into the brick wall with the sharp, gritty-rough rasp against his aching skin.

The sheriff watches his son with wide, wary eyes and Derek’s seen the expression a million times before: helpless. But the type of helpless he’s not used to feeling with a gun at his hip and a badge at his disposal. Being unable to save family is the worst kind of helpless there is.

Argent watches them both, Stiles and Derek; eyes forward and backwards between them but his gun trained on Stiles. But he won’t shoot with the sheriff in the room, won’t gun down another man’s child in front of him. It took Derek a long time to get it but he’s not Kate, doesn’t run thick with the same cruelty, doesn’t operate with the same need for gratification.

Derek’s pinned, plain old immobilized because the thing is physically _strong,_ stronger than him, stronger than Scott even. He can feel the nogitsune’s attention like a physical thing raking over his senses, picking him out as the next piece in its chess game. He can feel Stiles in there too, just a spark, the light of him dimming away.

And it knows it, too. It leans close—Stiles, Stiles leans close—and says in a soft, thready voice, “Don’t let them hurt me, Derek.” Eyes red-rimmed, tears that Derek thinks might be half real, half perfectly designed for the greatest impact, somewhere high on the scale of really fucking dangerous the way the sheriff takes a step forward and Chris a step back.

Derek looks _Stiles_ right in the eye. “You don’t wanna get hurt? Then get out of him.” And Stiles grins, psychotic and sickly and like nothing Derek’s ever seen on his face before, half-lit by the setting sun and he looks bright and burning, feverishly delighted.

“Oh, I intend to.” Stiles’ palm opens gently over Derek’s throat, his thumb pressing against the side of his mouth. “Open up.”

He’d like to imagine he heard it wrong, but he doesn’t hear anything wrong. The sheriff’s face drops in Derek’s peripheral vision and it’s a grim confirmation.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Argent asks, voice drown out by pressing panic because Stiles’ lips are opening over Derek’s jaw and his brain is all misfiring synapses and utter disbelief, rejecting reality for a desperate, scrambling excuse: Derek’s losing his own mind maybe.

But he isn’t, he’s perfectly sane and Stiles is angling Derek’s chin up and kissing the corner of his mouth so softly and so he struggles, bring his hands up to shove even though his better senses are telling him to play docile. He doesn’t stand a chance but he throws every bit of his strength into pushing Stiles— _not Stiles, not Stiles, make up your fucking mind, Derek—_ away. Stiles reels back about a meter before getting one foot against the ground and absorbing the blow like a shockwave, turning Derek’s force back on him in a full-body slam back into the bricks like he’s _feeding_ off the struggle.

“Stiles, stop it! This isn’t you, I know you’re in there—“

The sheriff, his voice stricken and desperate with reason and he’s about to watch his son add another charge to his growing list of crimes and Derek doesn’t want him to see _this_ of all things. But Stiles catches Derek’s wrists and grinds his skin and bone into the wall, up above his head, the burn of it acute and bringing Derek back to his senses. Stiles lays a forearm across Derek’s wrists and flattens a palm over his frantic heart.

He dips his head and shivers, one full-body tremor like an unfurling whip, his hair soft against Derek’s nose.

“You’d be surprised, _Dad_ , about some of the things I am.”

The sheriff relents, tells his son, “I know you,” and damn well means it but Stiles looks up at Derek, dark, _dark_ eyes and firm set to his mouth and his hand curling possessively around Derek’s ribcage, fingertips digging into his side.

“Clearly not as well as you think you do.”

Derek presses back but there’s nowhere to go, no inch of space for him to get any fucking distance. He doesn’t know who or what hell he’s looking at right now, just that he’s never felt this honestly afraid of that scrawny, defenseless kid he spent way too long underestimating.

Stiles breathes a laugh and smiles lazy and pleased. Then he leans heavy over Derek’s body and kisses him, for real and on the mouth and vicious, wet and open. It’s a kiss that feels and tastes like desperation and worse, the worst thing in this whole sordid mess; like Stiles and the way he used to smell, warm and achingly familiar.

There is _nothing_ but how he can’t stop focusing on Stiles’ tongue in his mouth, on the painstaking, bruising thoroughness of Stiles’ assault. Argent and the sheriff are reacting somewhere not six feet away—and why wouldn’t they be, Derek has no idea what _he’d_ be doing right now if he was a spectator to this disturbing puppet show—but he can’t see them, hear them, nothing, just Stiles and his scent and the taste of him, the all-consuming, suffocating presence of him.

Derek thinks he can hear screaming, faint and echoing, and then it’s smothered by something soft and pleading, a litany of _Derek_ and _please_ like fingertips across the inside of his head and he’ll do whatever, whatever it wants—

A warm, bright light.

Derek opens his eyes and sees it bloom and glitter. A tiny point between Stiles’ parted lips, curved up at the very edges in a sweet smile that begs to be believed.

And Derek does. He believes.

The light spreads over his tongue, heats the roof of his mouth and Stiles drags a thumb across Derek’s bottom lip. He leans close and whispers, “Now, swallow it,” and seals Derek up tight in another kiss, one he slides into willingly—so, _so_ willingly, Stiles’ hands dragging into his hair, Stiles’ tongue chasing down the little firefly.

It burns pleasantly in his throat, all the way down and down, lighting him up from the inside.

Stiles sucks on Derek’s bottom lip with a soft, wet sound that embeds itself immediately into his brain matter. He strokes his fingertips against Derek’s mouth.

“Good boy.”

It feels sharp and needling in a faint way, a vague notion that the words don’t sit well, but the light overpowers and smothers it down; it’s not important.

“What have you done to him?” Argent asks, furious, and the sheriff says his son’s name softly, terrified, but Derek doesn’t look, _can’t_ look, not away from Stiles and the enthralling brightness of his eyes.

And Stiles doesn’t look away either, enamored with Derek and the thing he’s done, the thing _they’ve_ done, all of them together, so much cleverer than these people and their pack. “You’ll see.”

Derek watches the shift of Stiles’ shoulder, gaze dropping down between them to Stiles’ long fingers wrapped lovingly around a silver zippo. He smells lighter fluid and smoky flint and feels his heart race, kick and stutter against Stiles’ palm pressing, again, into his ribs.

Stiles drags the lid open slowly, holds the lighter just inches from Derek’s face, and thumbs the flint wheel until the lighter comes to life, more heat and temptation, licking flames like he remembers; suffering, screaming, burning.

He watches the fire twist and flicker in Stiles’ eyes and Stiles watches _him,_ unwavering and hungry _._

The sheriff tries one last time, “Stiles?” all soft and broken, _helpless_.

Stiles snaps the lighter shut, clenched tight in his fist. He tips his forehead against Derek’s and Derek pushes one shaking hand into his hair, needs something tangible to cling to while the light works its way through his veins, shocking like lightning, thrumming like a current, every inch of his skin feeling hyper-sensitive and every nerve alive and on fire.

His brain flips to a slow boil; nothing’s ever felt so much like wanton abandon, freely giving into that spark of rage that sits under his flesh, day in, day out.

Stiles tucks the zippo into the pocket of Derek’s jeans and kisses him through an aftershock that feels like growing violence. Then he cocks his head, just enough to make eye contact with his father and Argent.

He grins and it’s beautiful.

“Now the fun’s really gonna start.”

***

“Hey.”

He’d sensed Stiles coming from the bottom floor but that doesn’t mean he’s any more prepared to see him standing in the doorway. Derek realizes he’s tensing up all over and he shouldn’t, not around Stiles of all people.

“You gonna—y’know?” Stiles gestures, an awkward, abortive little hand motion that’s just—Stiles. All Stiles.

Derek moves aside to let him pass, inhales him as he does, fresh air and laundry and coffee. Nothing dark, nothing alien. It doesn’t settle him much because he remembers it, the taste; vivid and stuck, lodged sticky in the back of his throat.

Stiles stands in the middle of the loft and swings his arms, taps his foot, sniffs a little. Derek doesn’t know what to say to him, hasn’t seen him in days, not since they took care of the nogistune. In the waning light of the setting sun spilling in through the windows, he looks exhausted. His eyes are still red-rimmed, his skin’s still pale, looks cold to the touch. But his face is soft and human, there’s no trace of the creature that threw Derek across the room and pinned him so effortlessly and he wonders, when exactly did he learn Stiles’ face so thoroughly?

“You okay?” Stiles asks and Derek feels a dusty laugh choke up and bubble over. Stiles frowns. “What?”

“You’re asking _me_ that?”

“Uh, yeah, apparently.”

“Stiles,” Derek says sharply, blowing out a sigh. “What’re you doing here?”

“Line-dancing, what the fuck does it look like?” Stiles snaps, folding his arms over his chest defensively.

“Looks like you’re lost, actually.”

He deflates at that and Derek feels pretty lousy for it, gnawing sense that he’s going about this all wrong but there’s too much of an edge between them; he feels uncomfortable, off-kilter. Stiles bites at the inside of his mouth and Derek watches it, painfully aware but it’s an instinct he just couldn’t catch in time.

He’s spent the last weeks obsessing over this guy, following trails, learning him inside out, and now he can’t stop. Now there’s too much awareness, every detail seared into Derek’s brain like he lives and breathes him.

“So, umm. That demon was a big old pervert, huh?” Stiles says eventually, cringingly over-nonchalant. “Think he wanted in your pants.” Derek screws up his face and doesn’t know whether to shake his head or kick Stiles out the fucking door. “ _Shit,_ sorry. Jesus, I’m really not good at stuff like this. Come on, dude, that’s not new to you.”

Derek takes a slow, careful breath. “You don’t have to apologize for the things you did while you were _possessed._ ” He tries to make it sound understanding but it’s difficult with the sense memory of Stiles’ hands on him.

Stiles glares. “Look, I got, like, a _lotta_ guilt here, y’know? And I get it, I was possessed, blah blah blah, whatever. But it helps. If I say sorry, it helps, okay? So just suck it up and take my damn apology.”

Derek holds up both his hands. “Okay. Apology accepted.”

Stiles nods slowly, looks down at the floor and frowns. He can feel Stiles sifting through the chaotic cloud of words he drags around with him everywhere he goes. Derek’s fraying patience is stretching to snapping point, has been since the last time they were in this room together, and he’s yearning for _something_ , a need he can just about put his finger on.

“What? Spit it out.”

Stiles cracks instantly, stuttering words flooding out on a wave of guilty conscience. “That’s not—not exactly true, though. I mean, the possessed thing is true, obviously, that son of a bitch was _all_ up in me—“

Derek’s nerves are too broken for this, it’s not fair to push like this but he can’t help it. “ _Stiles_.”

“I wanted to.” Stiles looks up, eyes wide, grim determination etched into the dark circles, the tightness around his mouth; Derek’s so sick of seeing the wrong expressions all over Stiles’ face. “I think he made out with you against your will because _I_ wanted to.”

It lands like a muted blow; Derek feels it physically ripple out from the point of impact and settle into his skin. It’s not really surprise, the nogitsune had made itself pretty clear—to a room full of people, no less—and its M.O. was chaos and nothing causes more chaos than the awkward truth. But Stiles is bracing like he expects Derek to attack him and that feels like a blow, too—an unacceptable one.

“It wasn’t you, that’s all that matters,” he tells Stiles firmly, as firm as he can manage while his heart thuds atrociously.

“But it wouldn’t have, if I didn’t—“

“But _you_ wouldn’t.”

Stiles’ mouth twists, Derek sees his eyes shine for a split-second before he blinks away whatever emotion was on the rise. “No.”

Derek repeats, “That’s all that matters.”

“Right. Okay. Umm.” Stiles shuffles a little, takes a few deep breaths. It all sounds like finality and Derek finds, suddenly, that the only thing more uncomfortable than this conversation is the thought of Stiles leaving. “I’m gonna—“

He makes a jerky movement towards the door but Derek steps into his path. “You look dead on your feet,” he says lightly.

Stiles eyes him warily, sees it for what it is—an olive branch—and rolls his eyes. “Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel better after he’s been through a highly traumatic experience.”

Derek shrugs but his heart is doing backflips, the sense of some huge, inevitable change bright on the horizon. “Been sleeping?”

“Hardly.”

“Eating?”

“A little.”

“I was gonna order something.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide; he swallows loudly. “O—kay.”

Derek slips past him and Stiles spins. “You can stay if you want. I’d feel kinda guilty about letting you drive in your state.”

He watches Stiles’ face from slack shock to wary comprehension before Stiles jerks into action, following Derek across the room to the windows where his skin looks warmer, his eyes the color they should be. Derek needed it, feels light-headed a little with how much he needed to see Stiles in the light.

“Derek, seriously,” he says quickly, a little breathless. “What are you saying here? You need to, like, tell me explicitly and in plain English what the hell you’re saying or I’m just gonna freak out about it.”

Derek leans back against the ledge, something solid to steady himself on. His throat feels thick and heavy with the words but he wants to say them with a clarity he so rarely feels. “I’m saying, if you did wanna kiss me, I’d want you to do it when _you’re_ ready. When you’re feeling okay. When you’re—all you.”

Stiles gawps at him, it’s comical and Derek presses his lips together but he’s blown it, it’s a smile, no going back from that one. Not that he wants to.

“How’s one outta three sound?” Stiles offers with a lop-sided smirk, his voice hoarse.

“Like a start.”

Stiles nods, his whole body loosening with the motion. He steps forward, hesitates until Derek shifts his legs apart where he’s leaning, like it’s a permission he needed, and slips into the gap.

Derek repeats, “When you’re ready,” but Stiles doesn’t hesitate this time, slides a hand over Derek’s shoulder and tips their foreheads together, jarringly familiar but it’s a Stiles thing, not a nogitsune thing, and that makes it okay.

Stiles ducks, bumps their noses together and breathes, “Maybe two outta three, then.”

Derek reaches out, spreads his fingers against the warm material of Stiles’ shirt against his sides. He touches gently, feels like this thing is tentative and breakable and he doesn’t want to risk damaging it, he _wants_ this and he’s gonna make it work. Weeks and weeks of worrying that someone’s going to put a bullet in Stiles, realizing that if they tried, Derek might actually kill them himself, can make for some pretty powerful self-reflection.

And then Stiles kisses him.

Derek tips his head to draw him in, feels fingers in his hair, and replaces the memory of the nogitsune with this one. Stiles’ warm, warm skin and soft mouth and curious hands. The way he’s shaking with nerves, the taste of coffee sitting on his tongue and the faint smell of car air-freshener in his clothes. Human. He’s completely human. The same Stiles as before and Derek never imagined, in his wildest dreams, just how much he’d miss him.

They pull apart and Stiles is grinning, goofy as hell. Derek cocks his head right back to get a good look.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “My apologizing skills are awesome.”

“They’re good, I’ll give you that. Not that you had to apologize.”

“Told you, makes me feel better.”

“Well, food and sleep are pretty effective at that too, so—“

“Pizza. How’s pizza sound?”

Derek pulls him closer, just because, because he wants to, because it feels good to have Stiles solid and alive against him. Feels like a vital step forward.

“Sounds good.”

 

 

 


End file.
